The Night of the Deadly Dare
by California gal
Summary: Jim and Artie encounter an old friend and an old enemy--who is the most dangerous?


****

THE NIGHT OF THE DEADLY DARE

An argument needs no reason, nor a friendship.

__

Fragment 40 — Ibycus (_c_. 580 BC)

"I didn't think you could be susceptible to a bully's taunts."

Artemus Gordon glanced over to where his friend was seated on the plush sofa of the parlor car, then resumed his stare out the window at the arid Wyoming landscape. "Normally, I'm not. But this is different."

"How?"

"It's it's hard to explain. Of all people, Jim, you should understand." Now he turned to face him. "How many times have you responded to a challenge?"

"Too many times. I've often wished I could be like you, let it flow away like water off a duck's back." Jim West got to his feet. "Artie, you can't face Kip Manley."

"Jim, for crying out loud, you're acting like I'm not capable of fighting my own battles!"

Jim West reached for the gun belt laying over the back of the couch, turning his back. He barely glanced over his shoulder as he began to strap on the belt. "No. What I'm saying is that you are not a gunhand, Artie. You can shoot a gun, and shoot it accurately. Maybe better than me. But you could never beat Kip Manley to the draw."

"And you can."

Now Jim looked back and saw the anger–and hurt–on his partner's face. "Artie, be reasonable. You"

"Reasonable! Turn it around, James. How would you feel if you were being told to go sit in the corner and let the big boys fight it out!"

"I wouldn't like it," Jim replied quietly. "But I hope I'd have the sense to realize the truth of it. Artemus, Manley will kill you!"

Artemus Gordon folded his arms across his chest, glaring. "So I get to live with everyone snickering behind their hands because I allowed you to take my place. I don't look well in yellow, Jim."

"No one will think that"

"Like hell! Jim, Kip Manley wants me, not you. I'm the one who testified against him at the court martial. I'm the one who sent him to prison. I'm the one he has challenged!"

Jim lifted his gleaming pistol from its holster, spun the cylinder. "And I'm the one he's going to face. Give it up, Artemus. I'm not going to allow you to ride into Whitewater and meet Manley. I'll hog-tie you before I'll permit that. Or I can order you to remain here." He raised his gaze to look directly at his partner.

"Order me!"

Jim smiled slightly. "Remember, I have two weeks' seniority on you."

For an instant he thought his partner was going to explode again. Jim sympathized. He understood Artie's feelings. Indeed, he _would_ feel the same. But facts were facts. Kip Manley had a reputation as a fast-draw and deadly killer. Artemus was no match for him.

Just as Jim was sure he was going to hear another tirade, Artie turned and departed from the parlor area, heading back toward the galley and beyond. Jim knew that Artie's mare was already saddled and tied to the rear of the parlor car, alongside Jim's horse. So he was not going for his horse, unless he exited through another door.

__

I need to get into Whitewater ahead of him, just in case he has any intention of going there.

Jim turned and picked up his jacket. He was pulling it on when he heard the footstep behind him. His nostrils caught the faint scent of something sweet. He was about to turn to see what his partner was doing, but the opportunity swiftly passed as the strong arm went around his neck, while a hand pressed a saturated cloth over his mouth and nose.

Jim West struggled, trying to loosen the grip, and even attempted to hold his breath, but those first few seconds did him in. The shock of his partner's assault had caused him to breathe in deeply, inhaling the fumes of the chloroform, so that the anesthetic immediately began its work, numbing his senses. Even trying to hold his breath was useless, because that required another inhalation.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Artie said softly into his ear. "This is something I have to do for myself."

Artemus held the cloth in place a few extra seconds after his partner sagged, just in case he was playing possum. Then he caught Jim under the arms and hoisted him to the sofa, taking a moment to check his pulse to make sure it was still strong and steady.

"I know you meant well, partner." Artemus gazed down at his unconscious friend. "If things _were_ reversed, I know I'd probably try to do the same thing. But you also know that I _have _to do this. I _have_ to face Manley. I hate the code of honor that requires it. Forgive me." The dose of chloroform he used would keep Jim out for an hour or so. _Just long enough for me to get to Whitewater and do what has to be done._

WWWWWW

The first thing Jim West noticed was how dry his mouth was. His brain seemed full of cotton as well. He grasped the back of the sofa and pulled himself to a sitting position, trying to figure out where he was and why.

__

Artie!

"Artie!" He called out, or tried to, his voice emanating as a hoarse whisper. Pushing himself to his feet, Jim staggered through the door into the galley, where he found a pitcher of water, poured a tumbler full, and downed it. The wetness eased his dry throat, and the coolness helped clear his head.

"Blast you, Artemus! I'm going to kill you!" _If Kip Manley doesn't beat me to it._ The realization of exactly what his partner had done caused an icy sheen to flow over Jim West's soul.

Jim forced himself to make a quick but methodical search of the compartments in the car, as well as the stable car, then used the communications hose to contact the crew. The crewmen told him they saw Artemus riding away over an hour ago. Of course, they had had no notion anything was amiss.

Only then did Jim leap into the saddle and put his heels to the black, which responded promptly, breaking into a swift gallop, as though sensing the frantic haste his master required. _Artemus has over an hour's head start._ That phrase kept drumming through Jim's head, and ice continued to flow through his veins. Whitewater was ten miles east, at the south end of this Wyoming valley, a long and hard ride.

Jim West could not forget the incident that had occurred in Tehada, Arizona Territory, when he had believed Artemus had died from an assassin's bullet, his own panicky–and futile–attempts to find a pulse, the funeral that ensued, and his need for revenge. Jim also recalled his astonished joy to realize that his friend–his brother in all but blood–still lived. However, the dread of having to relive the moment that had occurred in the hotel was always within him. He did not want to experience that pain again. That fear had fueled his attempt to prevent Artie from answering the challenge of Kip Manley.

Manley had been a fellow officer in Artemus Gordon's regiment. Early in the war, he had been arrested for stealing from his comrades. Gordon had been the leading witness at his trial, having seen Manley departing from the tent of a colonel shortly before that officer discovered some valuables missing. Kip Manley spent the rest of the war in the stockade, ultimately dishonorably discharged. For a man who came from a distinguished military family, this was the definitive disgrace and he blamed his former childhood friend.

Jim had never laid eyes on the man, but over the years, the agents had occasionally heard stories regarding Kip Manley, usually about his growing prowess as a gunman and paid killer. They had also heard rumors that Manley boasted about the day he was going to kill Artemus Gordon, the friend who had betrayed him and–in his version–lied about Kip Manley to save his own skin. Manley appeared to spend a great deal of his time in Mexico, with periodic forays into the States to carry out a paid killing.

__

Not always for pay, Jim mused as the spirited black horse thundered toward the town. Stories also abounded of how Manley defeated the challengers who wanted to trade on his reputation to gain one of their own. He was so fast and accurate with his pistol that he always won, and always knew he _would _win. The agents were never sure just how much of the tales about Manley were fact and how much was the usual embellishment that accompanied the stories of a man with Manley's reputation. Jim was also aware that hearing the tales saddened his partner.

A week ago the two agents had halted their train on the siding and proceeded on horseback to the town on the north side of the valley, Black Mesa. As a favor to the postmaster there, they had come to investigate a mail robbery. George Howard was an old friend from army days. The matter had been cleared up rather rapidly, but the pair had lingered to spend time with George and his family.

Yesterday, as they were preparing to take their leave from Black Mesa, word had arrived that a man in Whitewater, a town on the other side of the valley, was seeking Artemus Gordon. That man, they were told, was one Kip Manley, and he was challenging Gordon to meet him in Whitewater in a showdown. Artie had at first pooh-poohed the idea.

"I'm no gunfighter," he stated flatly.

However, the story quickly spread through Black Mesa that the well-known federal agent was backing down from a challenge. Both Artemus and Jim presumed that Manley very likely had arranged for the story to reach Black Mesa, and perhaps had planted a man or two there to spread the rumors about the apparent cowardice of Artemus Gordon.

"Forget it," Jim had advised, "let's just get out of here."

By then it was too late. Artemus Gordon knew that his honor had been challenged, as well as sullied. He stated flatly that he was going to go into Whitewater and meet Manley. Perhaps he could convince his one-time friend that a fight was foolish. Jim had talked and talked, futilely trying to persuade Artie otherwise. Finally, he made his own decision: he would face Manley himself whereupon his best friend blew his top.

Jim knew he had never seen Artemus so angry as at that moment. Artie had quickly cooled down, realizing that his partner meant well. However, he also remained adamant, as they debated the issue for hours while the time set by Manley for the duel approached.

Jim knew now he had made a mistake in pulling rank. He had both astonished and hurt his partner by doing so. He himself could be stubborn and hardheaded. Artie was usually much more reasonable, but he could be mulish when, in his view, the occasion demanded. This challenge had been such an occasion.

__

I should have been more aware. I should have known he'd do some fool thing like this! _To allow Artie to sneak up behind me that way._ That Artemus did so was a strong clue to his current feelings, how much this all meant to him. Usually Artie preferred to use his personality, his fluency with words, as well as guile, to remove himself from such situations.

The incident with Manley's court martial had occurred before Jim had ever met Artemus Gordon, and he knew only what Artie had told him a few years ago when they had overheard some men talking about a recent gunfight that had happened in their town. One Kip Manley had outdrawn a local man who had been reputed to be very fast. Artie had then told Jim of his previous acquaintance with a man bearing that name.

They had been friends in Michigan, growing up in the same area, attending school together, and finally enlisting in the same regiment. "I was shocked when I realized that Kip was the camp thief," Artie said at the time, "but later realized I should not have been. A number of petty thefts had occurred in school, as well as from our homes, not to mention stores in the area, but no one connected it to Kip. Yet he had been there, and he was in the camp when things began to go missing. I never was sure why he stole. His family was not wealthy, but he always seemed to have everything he asked for. Just the thrill of it, I suppose."

But Artemus Gordon had witnessed Kip Manley leaving the colonel's tent just a short while before the colonel discovered that his pocket watch and some money were missing. The watch was found secreted in the tent Manley shared with another soldier, whereupon Kip tried to blame his tent mate. But that man had been out on picket duty during the only possible time period that the theft could have occurred.

"At that time, testifying against Kip was the hardest thing I thought I would ever have to do," Artie had stated sadly. "Turned out that a number of other camp thefts could be traced to him, which made it only slightly easier for me."

Now Kip Manley, having turned himself into a notorious killer, wanted his final revenge. It occurred to Jim to wonder why Manley decided to call Artie out so publicly. Why not just come after him, even ambush him? _Manley must be the type of fellow who likes attention_, Jim mused_. Perhaps he knows enough about Artemus Gordon to be aware of Artie's job and reputation. Killing a government agent of the status of Artie could be an added fillip to a glory-seeking gunfighter if that's what Manley is._

As the town of Whitewater loomed, Jim slowed his pace slightly. Whitewater was not as prosperous as its sister city, Black Mesa, on the other side of the valley. George Howard had related that the two towns had been established around the same time by rival factions. Whitewater thought it had the upper hand because it was developed alongside the swift flowing river; the founders thought that the waterway would be used to float supplies in and possibly cattle out of the valley. Then the railroad had cut through the valley, however, its route laid closer to Black Mesa. Plus, George said, Black Mesa always seemed to have better management, better businesses, and thus became a more flourishing town.

The two agents had visited Whitewater just briefly during their investigation of the mail theft, to talk to the deputy sheriff who upheld the law in that town, appointed by Sheriff Baines, who maintained his headquarters in Black Mesa. Neither one of them had liked Deputy Simon Yates. He appeared to be the type of man who let the badge go to his head. However, the sheriff had said that Yates did a good job in Whitewater. He never received any complaints, and the town was well-run and law-abiding. In fact, Baines asserted, things were so quiet in Whitewater, despite the proliferation of saloons there, he himself rarely felt the need to make the trek across the valley.

Whitewater had just one main street, and as Jim rode down the middle, he noticed how the few people on the board walkways stared at him. Some might know who he was. They might also know that he was Artemus Gordon's partner. Did their stares indicate that something had happened to Artie?

Deputy Yates was standing on the porch of the small building that housed the jail, a thick cigar jutting from his mouth. Artie had joked after their previous visit that the cigar was fatter than the deputy. Yates was an extremely thin man, almost skeletal, with a long face and a protruding, pointed chin. He had a high forehead, and his thinning hair seemed to extend the face even further.

Jim steered his horse toward that porch, and halted, not immediately dismounting. "I'm looking for Artemus Gordon," he said.

Yates jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Inside."

Jim West climbed down slowly. He did not want to ask the questions. _Is he hurt? Is he alive?_ Would they have dragged his body into the jail to await claiming by his partner? Had a doctor repaired any wounds and left him there?

The deputy did not move until Jim stepped up onto the porch and headed for the door, and then he followed the agent inside. Jim took a few paces beyond the door, then stopped. The jail section was at the rear, just two cells created by iron bars embedded in the floor, with no wall or door dividing them from the office proper. One cell was empty. Artemus Gordon lay on his back on the cot in the other one.

__

I don't see any blood

Jim walked swiftly toward those bars, gripping the cool iron in his hands. "Artie!"

"He's dead drunk," Yates said behind him. "Damn coward!"

Jim West spun. "What the devil are you talking about?"

Yates shrugged his thin shoulders. "Just what I said. He rode hell for leather into town, stomped into the Silverado and braced Kip Manley. Manley told him to go to the devil. Gordon went to the bar, downed some liquid courage, then shot Manley in the back of the head."

For a long moment, Jim just stared at the deputy, absorbing what he had just been told. Then he shook his head slowly. "That's a lie."

Again Yates shrugged. "I wasn't there. But plenty of folks saw it. Only reason the trial ain't goin' on right now is that the judge is sick. Likely tomorrow morning, with a hanging by noon."

"Let me into the cell," Jim snapped.

"Can't do that. Sides, what good would it do? He's out cold. Downing a quart of redeye in twenty minutes will do that. I don't expect him to wake up fore I drag him to the Silverado for the trial. Kind of ironic, huh? We use the Silverado for our courtroom, and that's the scene of the crime."

Jim had difficulty hanging onto his temper. He could see that Artie's chest was rising and falling evenly, as though in a deep sleep. He stepped closer to the bars again. "Artie! Artie!" His partner did not stir. Again Jim turned to the deputy. "Where's Manley's body?"

Yates's almost invisible brows lifted slightly. "Buried."

"Buried! That was fast!" _Too fast._

"Why not? No need to have a corpse laying around. Especially the way his head was all busted up."

"Did you get the bullet out?"

"Huh? Why bother?"

"Because it's standard procedure," Jim replied tightly.

One more time Yates shrugged those nearly nonexistent shoulders. "Well, hell. Nine people seen Gordon do the shootin'. Don't need no bullet."

Jim held his temper and his tongue by the hardest. He wanted to bring up the fact that Manley had challenged Gordon to a gunfight, to point out that Artemus Gordon did not drink that way, that he would never shoot a man in the back, drunk or sober. Instead, he simply told the deputy that he would be back to look in on the prisoner later.

The first thing he did was to stride down the board walkway to the telegraph office. He was not entirely astonished when the telegrapher told him that all the lines were down, that he could not contact the sheriff over in Black Mesa, nor anyone else. Jim surprised the man by stepping around the counter and tapping out a code on the apparatus. But the telegrapher smirked when no response was forthcoming.

"See?"

Jim departed without comment, crossing the dusty street toward the largest of the town's half dozen drinking palaces. George Howard had told them that drinking, gambling, and whoring were the main industries in Whitewater now. The few stores survived merely because the men who frequented those places, and the women and men who worked in them, also needed food and clothing. The few families residing in or near Whitewater were connected with the general store, the blacksmith, the feed and grain emporium, and other such establishments, either owning them or employed within.

Passing through the double doors that were standing wide open in the early afternoon heat, Jim paused as he stepped to one side to allow his vision to adjust to the dimness, while not remaining a silhouette in the doorway. When he and Artemus were in Whitewater a few days ago, they had visited one of the other, smaller saloons for a beer. Despite that he had never before set foot in here, Jim realized that every person in the Silverado just now knew his identity.

None stared directly, but all glanced his way at least once. A half dozen women and perhaps twenty or twenty-five rough-appearing men were present, all armed. The men were at the bar or seated at tables, drinking, playing poker, or just talking with their companions. The women were scattered around the room, in the company of one or more of the male patrons, except for one woman who was at a table alone.

He crossed the floor to the bar and asked for a beer. The stocky barkeep placed one before him without comment. Jim put a coin on the bar. "I hear there was some excitement in here awhile ago. Did you witness it?"

The bartender's eyes narrowed slightly as he busied himself wiping down the bar with a stained rag, not meeting Jim's gaze. "Saw it all."

"Where did it happen?"

"That corner table. The one where Lizzie is sitting alone."

Jim glanced that way. The woman he had noticed was still seated by herself. "Odd she would want to hang around where a murder was committed."

"Lizzie is funny that way."

Jim picked up his glass and strolled across the room, still conscious that he was under scrutiny by every pair of eyes. _They know who I am. They know my connection to Artie. What the devil is going on here?_

No signs of blood were on the rough wooden floor around the table where the woman was sitting, nor did it appear that the boards had been recently scrubbed. Jim put his beer down and sat down across from the woman, careful to put his back to the wall, in a position where he could see the entire room. She looked at him, then directed her gaze back into the glass of whiskey sitting before her. "I can't tell you anything."

Her words were so soft Jim almost missed them. "Just thought you might like some company," he said in a normal tone, loud enough to carry to the poker game ten or so feet away. He picked up his own beer, and murmured when he held the glass to his lips, "I understand this where the killing took place?"

She was a brunette, with big brown eyes, probably in her early to mid thirties. Chances were that in her younger days her beauty had been spectacular. Quite a bit had eroded away in her lifestyle, but she was still very attractive. "Go away," she whispered. "You want to hang with your friend?"

"Did you know Kip Manley?" Jim asked quietly.

"Everybody knows Kip," she replied. Jim thought he heard acid in her tone, though her facial expression did not alter. He noticed the tense of the verb she had used and wondered what it meant, if anything. Might be just a slip, because Manley had been dead just a few hours.

"Did you see the shooting?"

At first he thought she was not going to answer. The brown eyes flicked toward him, briefly scanned the room, then once more dropped toward the gleaming liquid in her glass. "Everybody saw it."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Give me your hand," she whispered. "I read palms."

Jim extended his right hand across the table and she cradled it in one of hers. For a long moment, she stared at his palm, and he saw her eyes widen. "What do you see?" he asked.

"You don't want to know. You'd better get out of here." She traced a fingernail across his palm as she spoke, as though pointing out one of the lines. "I'm going to tell you a name. Don't react."

Jim nodded, and spoke in a louder voice. "That's pretty interesting. Long life, huh? In my profession?"

"Merton Warner."

__

Good thing she warned me! Jim took a breath. Another name from the past. The long ago past. "He's here?"

"That's why you gotta leave. No use both of you hanging." Lizzie released his hand and said loudly, "That's about all I got to tell you, mister. Fame and fortune. What else could you ask for?" She got to her feet and strolled away, carrying her tumbler of whiskey and swaying slightly. Jim was certain she was not that inebriated.

He picked up his beer to take a last swallow, when he noticed a man descending the staircase built along the side of the broad room. A stocky, well-dressed man, perhaps in his fifties, with a smooth pate but luxurious ginger-colored muttonchop whiskers which displayed only a few silver threads. He was looking in Jim's direction.

So Jim waited as the man approached. "I'm thinking you're Jim West, the partner of the man who was arrested for the murder today."

"I'm Jim West."

"Dolph Osborne. I own this place." He sat down without invitation. "Sad business."

"You witnessed it?"

"No, I was upstairs. Came down when I heard the gunfire. Your partner usually drink like that?"

"What were you told occurred, Mr. Osborne?"

The saloonkeeper chewed his lip a moment. "That this Gordon came in, charged right up to where Kip Manley was sitting–right in this chair as a matter of fact. Sitting with Lizzie. She was his favorite. Likely you could see why. She was sitting where you are. Anyway, Gordon demanded a showdown, and Kip told him to go away. Gordon went back to the bar, ordered a bottle of whiskey, drank more than half of it, one shot after another. Then he comes back, pulls his gun and shoots Kip in the back of the head."

"That's odd."

Osborne blinked. "What is?"

"Why didn't Lizzie warn him that Gordon was returning, that he had pulled a gun?"

"Well I don't know. Like I said, I wasn't down here. Likely it'll come out in the trial tomorrow."

"Likely," Jim murmured.

He got to his feet, nodded to Osborne and strode out of the saloon, crossing the street to the jail. Yates was not on the porch, but he was inside, in his chair behind his desk, booted feet up on the desktop.

"He ain't awake yet. Like I said before, I don't expect him to wake up till time for the trial."

Jim barely glanced toward the cell, where Artie was still sprawled on the wooden bench that served as a seat and bed. "Where did you bury Kip Manley?"

That apparently was the last question Yates expected. He pulled his feet down from the desk, leaning forward. "Why you want to know?" he asked, expression guarded.

"I want to put some posies on his grave," Jim replied sarcastically.

"I don't know where he was put. Some of the boys took him out into the prairie. Seems that was what Kip always said he wanted. To be planted out in the middle of nowhere, his grave unmarked."

"Strange request from a man who enjoyed publicity the way Manley seemed to. Where will I find Merton Warner?"

Yates's mouth dropped open, long chin drooping almost to his chest. He pulled it shut with some effort. "Why do you want him?"

"Old friend. Just thought I'd look him up."

"You can see him at the trial tomorrow. He's the judge."

Jim did not react to this astonishing information. _Warner a judge?_ "Is there a doctor in this town?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to have him look at my partner."

Yates got to his feet. "Ain't nothing wrong with him. He's just sleeping off a drunk. Don't worry, he'll be awake and sober in time to be hanged tomorrow."

"You didn't answer my question about Warner. Where does he live?"

"You ain't got no business with him."

"But I do. I intend to act as my partner's defense attorney. I think I should talk to the judge beforehand."

Yates was getting nervous, perspiration shiny on his long face. "I told you before, he's sick. He ain't taking visitors. You can talk to him at the trial."

"Deputy Yates, you've been of great assistance to me. I'm very grateful." With that sardonic remark, Jim exited the office. He glanced around and saw a small restaurant almost directly across the street, next to the Silverado. Crossing and going inside, he chose a small table that allowed a clear view of the sheriff's office, told the man in a dirty white apron that he just wanted coffee, and waited.

About five minutes elapsed before Yates emerged. Jim saw how he stared around, his gaze lighting for a long moment on the black horse that was still tied to the rack in front of the jail. Then the deputy locked his office door and strode down the walkway. Jim got to his feet, tossed a coin on the table and went to the doorway.

He saw Yates turn a corner at an alley beyond the building that housed the mercantile and separated it from the town's hotel. Jim left the cafe, crossing the street to his horse and mounting, then riding in the opposite direction from that which the deputy had taken. He halted again at a big barn-like structure almost at the edge of town.

A burly man wearing a leather apron emerged as Jim dismounted. "Something I can do for you?"

"I'm not sure," Jim replied mildly. "Wonder if you'd mind looking at the horse's left front hoof. He seems to be favoring it and I'm wondering if the shoe is loose."

The blacksmith stared at him a moment. _Someone else who knows my identity. _The smith took the reins, led the horse into the building. Jim followed, gazing casually around. As he had expected, he spotted Artie's chestnut mare in a stall. He also carefully took in the layout of the building, noticing a back door, as well as a couple of windows that were standing open just now.

"Looks okay to me," the smithy said, releasing the black's forefoot.

Jim smiled. "Must have been dogging it. He does that from time to time to get a little attention." He dug in his pocket for a coin, but the man waved him off. Jim led the horse back outside, mounted, and with a nod toward the big man, continued on his way out of town, heading in the same direction from which he had ridden in an hour or so earlier.

WWWWWW

But in deede,

A friend is never knowne till a man have neede.

__

Proverbs, Part I, Chap. XI — John Heywood (1497-1580)

"Artie! Artie! Can you hear me? Snap out of it, partner! Come on!"

Artemus Gordon heard the familiar voice, urgent in its tone. Were they experiencing an earthquake? Why was the bed shaking? No not the bed. Just his body. "What? Jim what?" He heard his own voice, rasping and dry. What was that roaring sound that seemed to drown out his own thoughts?

"Come on, pal. I need you awake. I wish I had some coffee to pour in you."

Artie forced his eyes open, and was momentarily startled to realize that doing so did not change things much. All was black. But he did see shapes. Or a shape. Looming over him. Again the earthquake no, hands were shaking his shoulders. "Whassgoinon?"

Jim picked up the canteen he had just filled from the frigid waters of the nearby river and held it to his partner's lips. Artie drank greedily, but Jim pulled it away after a moment. His own vision accustomed to the blackness of the moonless night, Jim saw Artie's eyes blink several times.

"Jim? Where are we?"

"Away from that blasted jail," Jim replied crisply. "Artie, we've got to get back to the train. I need you to be able to ride on your own. Can you sit up?"

"Help me," Artie said, and Jim grasped his partner's arm, pulling him to a sitting position. "Whoa," Artemus murmured. "The ground isn't very steady in these parts." He closed his eyes for a long moment.

"Artie, I want to know what happened, but we haven't the time just now. They've already discovered you're gone." He had heard the shouts from town. Yates must have been able to signal after all, or at least make some noise.

He had secreted himself in some brush on a hill outside of town and waited long hours until full summer dark, then crept back into town when the only signs of life were in the always busy saloons. Breaking Artie's mare out of the livery had been fairly easy. Getting his partner out of jail was only slightly more difficult.

Yates, and others, must have believed that he had gone back to the train, which was what he had hoped they would think. He was puzzled when no one followed him out of town to make sure, yet was well aware that Warner had always suffered from overconfidence. Jim had hidden the two horses in the alley alongside the jail, then stepped boldly in through the unlocked front door, catching Yates completely by surprise.

After using Yates's own manacles on him, fastening his hands behind his back, Jim had gagged the deputy and locked him in the unused cell, then opened Artie's. His partner was still in a deep sleep, and could not be roused. So after finding Artemus's gun and belt in the sheriff's desk, Jim had hoisted his partner over his shoulder, carried him out to the horses. He found it necessary to hold Artie on his own saddle with him, leading the chestnut, which unfortunately slowed their pace. Knowing that when and if the escape was discovered the belief would be that the two agents would head for the train, Jim had gone the opposite direction, to the riverside. His hope was that by the time Artie was ready to ride, the posse would have checked the train, and would be searching elsewhere.

"Artie," Jim asked quietly, "did you see Merton Warner?"

Artemus Gordon's eyes popped open. "Merton Warner! Here? You saw him?"

Jim shook his head quickly. "No. But I know he's here. This was one gigantic spider web, Artie. Not just you being lured into it. Both of us. We're both flies."

"I don't understand." Artie rubbed his hand over his face, as though trying to brush away the dust that was still muddling his thoughts.

"I know you don't, pal. But we don't have time to talk about it now. We need to get to the train and put some distance between us and Whitewater, then regroup and come back and take care of a few things."

"Help me up," Artie said.

Jim pulled him to his feet. Artemus immediately staggered, then leaned with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. Jim waited. He did not know what kind of drug had been used, but he was pretty sure Artemus had been given more than one dose. He had been unconscious close to twelve hours.

"Okay," Artie breathed, carefully straightening. "I can manage now. I don't suppose this was some sort of revenge on your part."

Jim was momentarily puzzled. "Revenge?"

"For the chloroform."

Jim chuckled, shaking his head. "No. I'll get you another time. Let's go. We're going to have to take a circuitous route to reach the train."

"I sure as the devil wish I knew what was going on," Artie grumbled as he pulled himself into the saddle. He had quickly realized that he should not make any sudden movements, lest the vertigo return. His head felt heavy, as though he needed a stick poked in under his coat to hold it up. He knew his partner well, however, and he recognized the urgency in Jim's tone and demeanor. Explanations would come later on both sides. _Merton Warner? Isn't he dead? Or in France?_

Jim led the way, riding along the river bank. He looked back frequently to make sure that Artemus was staying in the saddle. The roar of the swift flowing water below them precluded conversation. He was intensely curious about how his partner had ended up in a drugged stupor in the jail cell, but odds were that Manley, or someone, had provided a spiked drink. Had Manley been present at all? Had Kip Manley's name merely been used as part of the bait? Knowing Merton Warner was involved had changed the situation drastically. Warner was capable of elaborate plots that could have drawn in people like the bar girl Lizzie and the owner of the Silverado, as well as the bartender and others.

James West had first encountered Merton Warner in New Orleans shortly after the battle of Vicksburg. Warner had been a profiteer, accumulating a small fortune in the black market, smuggling cotton out and other much-needed items in, selling them mainly to the needy South at exorbitant prices. Jim had arrested Warner, seen him sentenced to prison, and pretty much forgotten about him.

Then about a year after the end of the war, while in the process of building their own reputations as Secret Service agents, Warner crossed the paths of both Gordon and West. Having been released from prison, Warner was in the process of a plot to rob the United States mint in Denver. Artemus, in one of his disguises, had infiltrated the gang, learned the plans, whereupon he and Jim foiled the robbery. Once again, Merton Warner had been sent to prison. He had raged during his sentencing, promising full vengeance against the two men who had prevented him from fulfilling his destiny.

Two years ago Warner escaped from prison and attempted to carry out that revenge. He had used a slick ruse to capture Jim West, but fell for another one of Artie's disguises. His plans were ruined. On this occasion, however, he had escaped custody before a trial could be held, and completely disappeared. Rumors had it that he had gone to Europe and died there. Until now, no reason had arisen to throw doubt on the story.

The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when their circuitous route led them to a hill from which they should have been able to look down on the engine and cars waiting on the siding. Jim pulled back harshly on the reins, and a moment later, Artemus halted beside him.

"Jim! The train where is it?"

"I don't know," Jim grated. The tracks in either direction were empty.

For a long moment both men sat still, scanning the landscape. Nothing was within view, not their train, and no humans or horses.

"What now?" Artie asked quietly.

"We should try to get to Black Mesa, I guess. But somehow I suspect it's not going to be as easy as it looks."

Artemus nodded. His head was clearer now, as long as he did not attempt to run a marathon or grapple with a horde of banditos. "I think we need to regroup."

Jim laughed softly at the term, then reined his black horse back the way they had come. Artemus followed, and they continued until they encountered the river again. The waterway meandered all around the valley, and at this point was too deep and swift to attempt to cross. They found a deep cutout, however, that had been caused by erosion at a time when the river ran even higher, creating a particularly good place to hide. The cover was enhanced by a couple of trees leaning precariously over the opening, almost disguising it completely.

"Tell me what happened to you, Artie?" Jim asked as soon as they were settled in with fresh water in their canteens.

Artemus sighed. "I was snookered, Jim. A man on the street told me that Kip Manley was in the Silverado, so that's where I headed. I hoped to talk Kip out of the gunfight. Which reminds me, I apologize profusely for the chloroform. I was I was not thinking all that clearly at the time."

"I got that impression. But don't worry. I had a good nap."

Artie grinned. "All right. But I am going to pay for it eventually, right?"

"If we live long enough," Jim smiled, then sobered. "Go on with your story."

"Okay. I went into the Silverado, and there was Kip."

"So he is involved."

"Yeah. Why?"

"I don't know. After hearing that Warner is here, I thought maybe it was all a made-up story."

"He acted like he had no idea I was in the neighborhood and laughed when I told him I had heard he challenged me. He said that apparently a friend of his had heard of our presence in the area and started talking up the fight, despite that Kip had told him he had buried the hatchet where I was concerned. I tell you, Jim, I was so relieved, I guess I was willing to believe anything. He poured me a drink–from the same bottle he was drinking from by the way–and I drank. That's pretty much all I remember until I woke up awhile back."

Jim shook his head. "What in the world is Warner planning? He lured me into town but stayed out of sight. Apparently he was going to be the judge at your trial."

"Oh, great. Talk about your unbalanced scales of justice!"

"Yeah. I think I wasn't supposed to know of his presence here until I walked into the courtroom tomorrow."

"How did you find out?"

"A woman in the Silverado, name of Lizzie, told me."

Artie nodded. "She was sitting with Kip. I got the impression she was extremely unhappy about something."

"It seems as though a large portion, if not all, of the town's population is in on the scheme, though I'm not sure how willingly."

"Oh, that's nice. Makes the odds rather fair, don't you think? Something like a hundred to one."

"I noticed that. We need to get to Black Mesa, Artie. The depth of the river on this side of the valley, especially where it borders Whitewater, pretty much cuts off retreat in that direction. I have no doubt the bridge there is, or will be, heavily guarded." George had informed them that bridge was the only span on the river in that area.

"Where do you suppose the train is?"

Jim shook his head. "Hard to say. Out of our immediate reach. Just hope the crew wasn't harmed."

"Yeah. You think Warner has a picket line set up?"

"I have no doubt. If it wasn't in place before I helped you escape, it certainly was set up afterwards. If he's got enough men" Jim shook his head. "How you feeling?"

"Oh, a lot better. Hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Sorry, I didn't bring a sandwich along. That's what you get for sleeping through supper."

"Yeah. But we are in a pickle, Jim. No food, only the ammunition on our belts."

"Well, we have to find a way through the picket line, Artemus. Wouldn't be the first time."

Artie knew what Jim meant. During the war, their espionage activities had required them to evade large and small enemy patrols. Slipping through a picket line around a camp had become almost second nature. "I don't suppose George will come looking for us. If he notices the train has moved on, he'll just believe we departed."

"I'm afraid you're right. Artie, I think we need to split up."

"Jim" He had known it was coming. He also knew Jim was probably right. That did not mean he liked the idea.

"I know. We can't hang around here all day, and in broad daylight, two of us are going to make a much bigger target than just one. Here's what I propose"

Artemus held up a hand. "I know what you're going to say, Jim. You'll create a commotion to draw as many men to you as you can, while I slip through and get help at Black Mesa. But what if it's too late for help? What if they kill you?"

"You're a worrywart, Artemus. I don't believe Warner has shoot to kill' orders out. He went to too much trouble to set all this up. He's not going to have either one of us killed until he's good and ready. He wants to have some fun first."

"I have to agree," Artie sighed. "And when he's good and ready means after he's tortured you, if he nabs you first."

"Have you got a better idea, Artie? And don't say you'll create the diversion. I know you, Artemus. I can see you haven't entirely recovered from the drug."

"I don't see what that has to do with it," Artemus responded. "The one who heads toward Black Mesa will need his wits about him as well."

Jim remained silent a long moment, knowing the truth to this. Finding the way to the other side of the valley while avoiding searchers could be difficult. "Want to toss for it?" he asked finally.

"Only if you let me use my two-headed quarter."

Jim West laughed. "Let's base it on the horses then. You know Blackjack is the faster. The one creating the diversion is going to need to outrun pursuers."

"Dang it, Jim," Artemus Gordon sighed, "why are you always able to rationalize everything, even when it's irrational?"

"A gift," Jim replied wryly. "If you feel up to it, we'd better get moving."

"As my head is slowly clearing, I'm remembering something," Artie murmured, turning toward the brown horse that had been waiting quietly. He opened one of the saddlebags and pulled out a bundle of cloth. "I have a little disguise here–a Mexican peon."

"Left over from Halloween?"

"Ha ha!" Artie snickered at his partner's attempt at whimsy. "I stuck it in here when we first went to Black Mesa, thinking I might use it to help solve the mail theft, then didn't remove it." He shook out the bundle, revealing a loose blouse and colorful serape, as well as a floppy sombrero and a small box which contained his makeup.

"I don't know, Artie," Jim spoke doubtfully.

"Jim, with Merton Warner out there, we need every edge we can get. Every diversion."

"You're right. Okay. While you are fixing yourself up for your stage appearance, I'll head out. Give me at least a half hour. I'll try to make enough noise not only to draw Warner's men to me, but so that you can hear I'm in action."

"Just stay in action, partner. No laying down on the job." Artie's words were light, but his face was grim.

"That goes double, pal. No siestas. See you later." Jim swung into the saddle.

"Yeah," Artie replied, sourly. "Later." He did not like this plan of action one bit, even while being aware that Jim was probably right. One of them needed to get to Black Mesa for some help. They could only hope that the telegraph was still in operation there; the army might be needed. Jim West was always throwing himself into the middle of the storm, and as Artie had once commented to a Mexican Federale officer who asked why Gordon allowed it, "What makes you think I had a choice?" _One would think that after all these years, after the number of times Jim has done this, I'd be used to it._

Artie applied the makeup swiftly but accurately. He had a brushy black mustache to paste to his upper lip, along with the skin-darkening cream. Artemus Gordon was going to do everything in his power to avoid encountering anyone at all, but the disguise just might help him if he did run into any of Warner's men. The plan was that every man now scouring the region for them would be drawn toward the commotion Jim West would be causing.

WWWWWW

Jim spotted the first men about two miles from where he left his partner alongside the river, and fortuitously, he saw them before they saw him. That gave him a few moments to lay out his strategy. He had just rounded a low knoll when he heard a man laugh–a much too loud laugh from someone who should have been worried about alerting his quarry, which had just happened. Pulling to a halt, Jim swung the black horse around then slowly and cautiously ascended the rise from the backside, to a vantage point from which he could view his pursuers behind the shelter of some heavy brush at the summit.

Five of them, all mounted, not doing much pursuing at the moment; they seemed to be quite relaxed in their saddles. Three were smoking cigarettes. They were not taking their job very seriously, perhaps because they were out of the range of surveillance by Warner and the deputy sheriff.

Jim inspected the surroundings. He was not familiar with this area, but the landscape indicated that the river arced a little north of this site. The river cut a sinuous path throughout the valley after curving around Whitewater, providing water for the cattle of the few ranches located here. He wanted to give himself an escape route once he exposed his presence to these men, and the river with its swift and deep current was an all but impassable barrier. _Be nice to know where the next picket line is, too, but I'm going to have to just risk it. Artie needs time and space to get to Black Mesa._

He leaned down to pat the black's neck, murmuring encouraging words. This was not going to be fun, for man or beast. Riding at a gallop over unfamiliar ground was not a wise activity: they could encounter obstacles–a prairie dog hole, fallen log, rocks. The pace had to be swift to avoid capture. Or to hopefully avoid capture.

Jim rode back down the rear of the knoll, then took a deep breath before spurring the gallant black horse into top speed through the low area where he had originally spotted the men. About halfway to them, just as one of them shouted a greeting, apparently inquiring if the oncoming rider was one of his cohort, Jim hauled back on the reins. The black reared and snorted. Jim then reined him away from the posse, drawing his gun and firing a single shot toward the men. Artemus had been right. Without the supplies in the train at their disposal, the ammunition they possessed was limited and to be hoarded as much as possible.

His abrupt appearance apparently threw the five men into confusion, as several seconds elapsed before they got on his trail. So much time that Jim felt it necessary to slow down slightly lest they lose him. As soon as he was sure they were behind him, he kicked the black's speed up again, throwing another shot in his pursuers' direction. They reciprocated, and he ducked low in the saddle so as to create less of a target. With any luck, the sounds of their shots would carry not only back to Artemus to alert him to move out, but to any other of Warner's men in the vicinity, pulling them to this area.

He had not proceeded very far when proof appeared that, indeed, the commotion had drawn the interest he hoped, as another group of men appeared from his left, with their weapons streaking fire. When another similar posse emerged from his right, Jim West knew he was in trouble. They had been much nearer than he had anticipated, and were going to be able to close down his escape route.

__

Artie, you'd better be well on your way!

WWWWWW

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

__

Idylls of the King, Lancelot and Elaine, line 1082 — Alfred, Lord Tennyson

His wrists were tied behind his back when he was escorted in through the front door of sheriff's office and jail. The first man he saw was Merton Warner. That man rose from the chair behind the desk, pulling a thin cigar out of his mouth. Of medium height, with now snow-white hair and still wearing the gold-rimmed spectacles he always sported, he looked more like a teacher or accountant than a criminal mastermind. Yet he proudly claimed the latter as his occupation, and despised the lawmen who had prevented him from successfully pursuing his chosen career.

"Ah, Mr. Gordon," Warner greeted with what appeared to be a genuinely warm smile. "I'm so glad you accepted my invitation. Mr. West and I have missed you."

Artemus saw Jim then, sitting on the bunk in one of the two cells. The bruises on Jim's face attested to the fact that he had not surrendered without a struggle; or else Warner had been amusing himself. Jim West's eyes were cold emerald stones, not revealing his feelings, though Artie knew he must be disappointed over the failure of their plans. _No more disappointed than I am, pal._

"I just couldn't stay away," Artemus replied acidly. "Wouldn't want to miss the party."

"Of course I had alerted my men to your talent for disguise, Mr. Gordon. I must say, though, that this is not one of your finer impersonations."

"Haste makes waste."

Warner chortled loudly. "The one thing–perhaps the only thing–I have ever admired about the two of you is your ability to make jokes in the face of danger. And you are in danger, Mr. Gordon. Make no mistake." He nodded to the men on either side of Artie.

They grasped his arms and propelled him to the other cell, untying his wrists just before shoving him inside and slamming the barred door shut. As the key was turned in the lock, Jim West rose and came to the bars of his cell facing the outer area.

"What now?" he asked.

Warner settled in his chair again as he took a puff on his cigar, which he removed before speaking. "Now we just enjoy each other's company, as old friends should. Mr. Gordon's trial has been postponed, but only slightly. Tomorrow morning, twenty-four hours late. And now he'll have a companion in the defendant's chair. And twenty-four hours after that, you'll both hang."

"You're a fool, Warner," a new voice spoke up. Both Jim and Artie, as well as Warner, turned their attention to the doorway, where a slender blond man stood, a man wearing a well-worn gun belt containing a pistol whose walnut handle was silken with use. "You give West and Gordon time, and they'll find a way to defeat you."

Warner waved a dismissive hand. "Looks to me that neither of them are in a position to do anything other than wait for death."

"Hello, Kip," Artie said in a conversational tone. "You're looking well, especially considering the reports I heard about your demise. Did you ever meet my partner, James West?"

"No, but I know him by reputation."

"I've heard about yours as well," Jim replied mildly. He was still seething with the frustration and anger he had experienced when one of Warner's men showed up an hour ago to report that Artemus Gordon had been captured, miles away from Black Mesa. Their only hope now was the train crew, and if Warner had them as well, that hope was very slim.

He had been tempted to ask Warner about the train, but held off, hoping that Warner would bring it up himself. Jim also hoped that Artemus similarly would not mention it. A very slight possibility existed that the crew had acted on their own and moved the train. If that was the case, they did not want to alert Warner.

"Say, Warner," Artemus said, "doesn't this put a crimp in your plans to try me for Kip's murder?"

Merton Warner chuckled. "Not at all. I have the witnesses all lined up. And if poor Kip's twin brother wants to have a say before the sentencing, who am I to deny him?" He sobered then, turning to the skeletal deputy sheriff who had been hovering behind him. "I want guards in here constantly. Do you understand? At no time are they to be left alone."

"Yes, sir," Simon Yates responded. "Yes, sir. They won't get away. I promise you that."

Warner glared. "If they do, you'll hang in their place!" He stalked out of the office, followed by three of the half dozen men who had been crowded into the room.

Yates edged toward his own chair as though fearful Warner would return and usurp it again. One of the other men quickly occupied the only visitor's chair, while the other two backed up to lean against the wall. Kip Manley stood just inside the door for a long moment, the moved toward the cells.

"I want you to know, Gordon, that this wasn't the way I wanted it."

"Nor I, Kip," Artie said. "I have to admit I was not looking forward to the idea of facing you in a showdown either. Have you known Warner long?"

Manley shrugged. "Met him a couple months back. Didn't like him then, don't like him now."

"Then why are you working for him?" Jim inquired. As he expected, anger flared in Manley's blue eyes.

"I'm not working _for_ him!"

Artemus leaned his forearm against the bars and gazed at his boyhood friend. "Then what the devil _are_ you doing?"

Kip Manley glared at him. "That's none of your concern."

"Tell me something," Jim said, aware that Manley was not going to tell them much about his personal relationship with Warner at this juncture, "did Warner set up that mail theft?"

"Sure. Then he had a fellow who's a friend of George Howard to suggest that he contact his old pals, West and Gordon, to come look into it. All the while keeping his own name out of it."

"I wonder if Warner is as smart as he thinks he is," Artie commented, aware that the deputy and the three guards were listening. "Our superiors know we are here, and they know when we are supposed to report. You can bet that when we don't show up, an investigation will be launched. Could be the army will be coming to wipe this town off the map." He saw Yates exchange startled glances with the others.

Manley only shrugged. "I'll be long gone."

"Sticking around for the hanging?" Jim asked mildly.

"Sure he is," Artie put in. "He'll want to be able to tell the folks at home the whole story. How are they back there, Kip? Been home lately? How's your sister? Pretty girl like that is probably married by now, huh? Have you got nieces and nephews? I guess you know I had a crush on Adele back in fifth grade. But then, so did every red-blooded boy in the county!"

Manley's glare was fiercer this time. Without replying, he spun on his heel and left the lawman's office. Artemus casually turned and sat down on his bunk. He idly tapped his fingernail on the bare wood. Jim did not react, going to the small barred window that he could just reach when he extended his arms above his head. Gripping the bars in both hands, he hoisted himself up.

"Hey!" Yates yelled, jumping up from his chair. "Stop that! Get down from there!"

Jim lowered his body, turning around. "Just wanted to see what the scenery was like out there." The other three men were tense, hands hovering over their weapons.

"Just see you don't do that no more," the deputy commanded. "I'll get some boards and nail it shut and you won't even have no fresh air."

Jim sank onto the bunk. "Well, seeing as before too long I won't have need for fresh air, I'd better enjoy it while I can, huh?" He twisted his body, laying face down on the thin mattress, arms under his head. With the hand that was away from the deputy and the guards, he tapped on the wood.

__

WHAT HAPPENED?

__

TOO MANY MEN. WARNER MUST HAVE 50. THEY WERE WAITING.

Artemus got up from the bench and stepped toward the bars. "What are the chances of getting a drink of water. I've been very thirsty after that Mickey Finn slipped to me."

"Sit down and shut up," Yates snarled.

Artie obeyed, leaning back. He had been watching the four men in the office; none evinced any indication they noticed the tapping or understood Morse code if they had. _ANY INFO ABOUT TRAIN?_

WARNER DIDN'T MENTION IT. HOPE IT LEFT ON OWN.

HOW DO WE GET OUT OF HERE?

EXPLOSIVE IN BOOT. NEED TO PICK RIGHT TIME.

They ceased the communication for now, realizing that should they continue, despite disguising their movements, they might be caught out. Jim pretended to fall asleep, while Artemus moved restlessly about his cell, sitting, then standing, walking to the bars, going back to the cot. He was the recipient of stares from the guards, but after awhile, their attention wavered as they grew bored.

One of them had just suggested a poker game when the front door opened and Merton Warner entered, a scowl on his handsome face. He barely glanced at the guards, however, coming straight to the cells. Artemus had just settled on the bunk, and he remained there.

"Forget something, Warner?" He spoke partially to annoy Warner, but also to alert his partner. Jim's face was toward the wall.

Warner grasped the bars in both hands. "Where's your train?"

Artie's dark brows lifted. "On the siding, I presume. Why do you ask?"

Jim rolled over slowly, yawning. "What's going on?"

"Seems Mr. Warner has misplaced our train, James."

"I'm in no mood for asinine games, you two," Warner growled. "One of my idiotic men belatedly informed me that the train is not where it was last seen. Where is it? Where did it go?"

Jim sat up. "Last I saw it, it was on the siding. If it's not there now, I have no idea." He knew Artemus was experiencing the same elation he was. The crew must have gotten wind of problems and moved it out of the valley. Chances were very good that they would try to bring back help. They had no official status, but the crew was known by officers at Fort Laramie and elsewhere.

Merton Warner took a step backwards, looking from one prisoner to the other. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you're not going to succeed. The only reason I don't have you taken out and hanged this instant is that the gallows are not ready. The construction was interrupted by the search. At the crack of dawn, you two will swing."

"What happened to the trial?" Artie asked.

"It's been held! James West and Artemus Gordon are guilty of interfering in my plans. The penalty is death by hanging." Warner spun on his heel and strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

"See, I told ya," Yates chortled. "No need to worry about water. Or food neither. Guess you boys better start making your peace with your maker!"

__

TIME TO MAKE THE MOVE? Artemus tapped out.

Before Jim could code out a reply, the door opened again. This time the visitors were Dolph Osborne from the Silverado, followed by Lizzie. Each carried a cloth-covered tray. Simon Yates jumped to his feet.

"What's that?"

"Dinner for the prisoners," Osborne stated.

The deputy got to his feet, doubt on his thin face. "Mr. Warner didn't say nothing about sending over food."

"Not Warner's doing," the saloon owner replied. "Kip Manley sent it."

"Well, I don't know"

"You want to argue with Kip Manley?" Osborne inquired.

The deputy flinched. "Well go ahead. Don't know why anyone would bother. They ain't long for this world."

"You'll need to open the cell doors," Lizzie pointed out. "We can't slide the trays in sideways."

The three guards pulled their guns when the doors were unlocked by the deputy and the trays passed inside. Artemus recognized Lizzie as the woman who had been at Kip's table, but was unsure about the identity of the man with the ginger whiskers. Jim appeared to know both.

"Thank you," Jim said, accepting the tray from the woman. "Appears that your palm reading of a long life isn't going to come true."

"My readings always come true," she replied. "Don't forget the part about an unexpected gift."

Jim placed his tray on the bunk, but remained on his feet until Osborne and Lizzie departed and the deputy and his companions settled into their places again, the two without chairs dropping to their haunches against the wall. Then Jim sat down, picked up the fork, and idly tapped it against the cup of coffee as he stared at his food.

"Not feeling very hungry," he said aloud. _CAREFUL. MIGHT BE SOMETHING IN FOOD._

"I'm starved," Artie replied. "I'm so hungry I don't know where to begin." He tapped his own fork against the metal pie plate on which the meat and potatoes were piled. _DRUGS?_

__

WEAPON. "I guess I might as well eat," Jim said, poking his fork into the mashed potatoes. The tines struck something hard before reaching the tin bottom. He could discern it was too small to be a gun, not even the smallest derringer.

He took a mouthful of the potatoes and chewed them slowly, as though having difficulty, then swallowed hard before taking a drink of coffee. After another bite, he shoved the tray toward the wall, then lay down on his side, with his back to the bars, shielding the tray from the guards.

__

GOT SOMETHING. KEEP EATING, Jim drummed out against the tray.

Jim West was astonished to find a key underneath the mashed potatoes, a key that greatly resembled the one he had seen used to lock their cells. Was this genuine? Even if it was, he was unsure how it was going to help. They could not simply unlock the doors and step out, not with four armed men on guard.

He cleaned the key as best he could and slipped it into an inside pocket in his jacket. So now they had the explosives in his boot heel and a cell door key. How could both be used to effect their escape?

Jim looked at the four men who were now engaged in a card game around the desk, one sitting on a box that apparently had once held ammunition, the other on his knees. They were already becoming lax. Another few hours of guarding locked cell doors

__

GOT A WEAPON.

Jim sat up, barely glancing at his partner. He saw the quick motion Artemus made with his hand, which rested on the thin mattress alongside his leg. Artie moved his finger as though pulling a trigger. Somehow a small gun had been secreted with the food!

__

AFTER DARK, Jim tapped.

"Hey," Artie called, "someone want to get this tray? I'm not eating the chocolate cake, so it's up for grabs."

The same routine as previously ensued, with three men holding their guns on the prisoners while the cell doors were opened and the trays taken out by the fourth. Jim had also left his dessert, and much of the steak, so the guards wrangled over who was going to eat which leftover.

"Not bad for a last meal," Artie yawned, "though I think I would have preferred lobster."

"You and your gourmet tastes," Jim complained. "I have a notion lobster would be a bit rare here in Wyoming."

"Well, a man can dream." _PLANS? ARMY CAN'T GET HERE FOR AT LEAST 24 HOURS IF THEN._

__

THINKING. HAVE KEY. EXPLOSIVES. IDEAS?

Artemus placed a hand on his side, feeling the shape of the tiny derringer he had found under his potatoes, carefully wrapped in a small piece of oilcloth to protect it, now tucked under his shirt. Not much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing. A derringer, a jail door key, and explosives. And darkness. Jim was right. They would need the darkness, that he was certain. After a moment he rested his hand on the cot and began to move his finger.

WWWWWW

Treat your friend as if he might become an enemy.

__

Maxim 402 — Publilius Syrus (_c._ 32 BC)

A new shift of guards came on late in the afternoon. Simon Yates left for awhile, apparently to get some supper, but returned, looking very sour. Jim wondered if he had thought he was going to get the evening off but had been ordered back to duty by Warner or someone. He and Artie had held more surreptitious coded conversations, both wondering if the story that Kip Manley had sent the food over was true or a cover.

__

IF NOT TRUE, Artie had tapped, _LIZZIE AND OSBORNE MIGHT BE IN TROUBLE._

__

WHY WOULD MANLEY DO IT?

Artie could not answer that. The man he had encountered in the saloon, before he had been drugged, had been friendly and welcoming, much like the Kip Manley he had known back home, and during the early days of the war. Yet he also knew that all that while, underneath, Kip had been a thief and a liar, and by reputation, a killer.

Manley now appeared to be at odds with Warner's plans. Why? Artemus had never doubted the stories he heard over the years that Kip Manley wanted vengeance against Artemus Gordon. Warner sought revenge as well. Why would not Manley be willing to participate? He had apparently cooperated to the extent of luring the agents to this area. Why had he changed his mind if he had changed his mind?

For that matter, why were the saloon owner and his employee assisting? Jim had told him how Lizzie had given him the information about Warner's presence. They were both fully aware that this "help" could be some sort of trap. Warner talked about hanging them, but perhaps he was thinking a blood bath in the street might be more fun. Nevertheless, both agents realized they could not simply sit and wait for dawn and the hangman's noose.

Time dragged on slowly as the shadows gradually lengthened and the light within the jail cells dimmed, the oil lamp now burning on the desk not extending its illumination beyond the card hands of the players. The new guards had quickly gotten into a poker game as well, and except for occasional glances toward the cells, paid little heed to the prisoners. That worked out well for Jim West, as he sought to remove the explosive components from his boot heels without attracting attention. He soon realized that the end of each hand was the best time, as the men talked, boasted, and complained about the hand they had won or lost. He managed to secrete each lump of chemical "putty" under his mattress, without gaining any notice from the guards.

Being summer, the hour was well past nine before full dark arrived. Last night had been moonless, but the sliver of a new moon would be visible tonight. _Better than a full moon_, Artie decided as he lolled on his cot. _Our plans will work better with the least light possible._ He kept one eye on the poker game, while paying attention to Jim's movements. Again, Jim needed to be surreptitious, not attracting notice from the guards. Everything depended on those four men not being aware of his actions.

Jim knew how many seconds he would have once he melded the two compounds together. After cautiously procuring the lumps from under the thin mattress, he held a portion in either hand, his gaze on the poker game. As luck would have it, this particular hand the men were playing caused some controversy almost from the first card dealt, and they were bickering all the while. Thus when the deputy sheriff displayed his cards to claim the pot, rancorous voices were immediately raised, complaining about a bad deal or some rule violation.

Jim moved swiftly, mashing the two lumps together, pausing just a few seconds, and then hurling the combined chunk out through the bars of his small window. He had noticed early on, when he drew a rebuke for pulling himself up, that the rear of the jail was an open field, occupied only by an outhouse.

He had just settled back onto the bunk when the explosion occurred. Not a huge blast, but certainly loud enough to draw attention, along with a flash of light. And attention it drew. The poker players jumped to their feet, yelling, cursing, asking questions. From outside, more shouts were heard.

Simon Yates headed for the front door, calling behind him for someone to stay with the prisoners. Fortunately, either none of the other three men heard the command, or their curiosity–and perhaps fear–was aroused too much to remain. As soon as the last man dashed out the door, Jim pulled the key from his coat pocket.

__

This had better work in the door, or we're sunk. He had used every bit of the explosive clay to create the loudest explosion possible. None was available to use on the door locks, even if they might have the time.

Artemus breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the key indeed turned the lock. Jim handed the key to his partner and headed for the desk where he had seen their weapons stashed in a drawer. By the time he had pulled the gun belts out, Artemus was beside him. Strapping the belts on, they dashed out the front door.

The people who were on the street were primarily in or near the alleys on either side of the jail, their attention focused on the rear area where the explosion had occurred. The acrid odor of the explosive hung in the still evening air. The two agents dashed to the opposite side of the street and ducked into an alley, pausing in the deep darkness there for a few seconds to make sure they had not been noticed.

Wordless, the two men moved again, passing through the alley to the rear of the buildings, and then sprinting through the darkness toward the edge of town. As they expected, the livery stable was unoccupied. If anyone had been there, they had gone to investigate the commotion at the heart of town.

Both horses were in stalls, their saddles nearby. After they saddled their mounts, Jim went to the front door and pushed it partially open, enough to have allowed a horse to pass through. Then they led their horses through a smaller back door, closing it securely and carefully brushing away as best they could the signs of their passage.

Another hue and cry was being raised in the street as the agents walked the horses back toward the middle of town. Artemus touched Jim's arm and pointed to a small shed approximately behind the Silverado.

"Perfect," Jim murmured.

Better yet, the shed was empty, unlocked, and the right size for the two horses. After pushing the door shut, Jim and Artie crouched in the darkness and waited.

"Like you said," Artie whispered a few minutes later, "perfect."

Without doubt, a posse had been gathered, probably made up of Warner's men, after the escape had been discovered. When the missing horses were also noted, that posse headed at a full gallop out of town, likely assuming that the escapees would have continued that direction beyond the stable. They could hear the thunder of hoofs over the wooden bridge there. The town quieted somewhat then, though they saw lights burning in the second story windows of several buildings.

"Let's go," Jim said quietly.

They slipped in through the rear door of the Silverado, into a storeroom filled with cases of bottles, kegs of beer, and other supplies for such an establishment. The inner door to the storeroom opened into a narrow hallway. One end obviously led into the saloon proper, perhaps behind the bar, but the other end was a staircase. That was the way they chose.

Both knew they were literally blind as far as knowing what they were going to encounter. Neither had been in any part of the saloon beyond the main room. Osborne had come down some stairs and told Jim he had been in his office upstairs during the supposed murder of Kip Manley. Jim suspected Osborne also lived upstairs, as might some of his employees, including women like Lizzie.

Guns in hand, the pair climbed the uncarpeted steps as stealthily as possible. When one creaked under Jim's weight, they paused for a few seconds. Then Artemus, trailing, was careful to step over that particular stair. At the top, they halted again, listening. Hearing nothing beyond the closed door, Jim grasped the latch and pushed it open a few inches.

Still hearing no sounds, he opened it further and stepped into a wide, carpeted hallway. Lamps in wall sconces were lit, but turned low. One door at the far end of the hall was standing open. Artemus nodded his concurrence to Jim's tacit question, and they started toward the door. Then froze as a man suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Dolph Osborne froze as well, but then motioned to them. "In here," he called in a low voice. "Hurry."

They had no choice but to stride down the hall into that room, which turned out to be a combination office and bedroom, with a heavy roll-top desk on one side and a large four-poster bed on the other. As they entered, Osborne was pulling the shades on the two windows. He turned as Artemus shut the door behind them. "I thought that must have been you two causing that commotion. How'd you manage that?"

"Tricks of the trade," Jim replied. He still held his pistol, as did Artie. This was not the time to relax their vigilance. "What's going on? Why are you helping us?"

"Because I want to get rid of Merton Warner just as much as you do."

"Why?" Artemus asked bluntly.

"Because we don't need his protection.'"

The agents exchanged glances, and Jim said, "Is that what his game is here? Insurance?"

"That's what he calls it. He's been here nearly two years now. Pretty much keeps a low profile. I don't think the sheriff over in Black Mesa knows who he is. Outside of Whitewater, he's just known as Judge Warner."

"And is he a judge?" Artie wanted to know.

"Oh, sure. He got himself elected. At least the ballots in the box said he was elected. Since I've not heard of many who voted for him well, that's in the past. What's important now is getting rid of him. I'm willing to help you do that."

Osborne tersely told them how, a couple of months ago, Warner announced his plans to lure two Secret Service agents to Whitewater for the purpose of gaining his revenge on them. He used the same strong-arm tactics to force residents to cooperate as was used to extort "insurance premiums" from them, threatening life, property, and families.

"Whitewater ain't much of a town," Osborne admitted, "but it's the kind of place most of us want. We provide certain services to other folks in the region, to travelers. We paid our taxes, and the sheriff put a deputy here. It was all working well until Warner showed up."

"What about Kip Manley?" Artemus Gordon asked.

Now Osborne frowned. "That's a puzzle. He rode into town maybe two months ago, around the time Warner started putting his plan into action to get you two here. I'd heard of Manley's reputation as a hired gun, but so far as I could tell, Warner didn't summon him here. Manley just drifted in."

"And he cooperated with Warner?" Jim wanted to know.

"That is another strange thing. I'm not sure. I heard rumors that Manley had a grudge against one or both of you. Seems he cooperated with the plan to frame Gordon for the murder. We were all told what to do and say. If the trial had gone forward, we would have testified."

Artie shook his head. "Why do these criminal masterminds always devise such elaborate plans?"

Osborne shrugged. "From what I understand, Osborne was determined that the two of you would have your reputations ruined. He expected Mr. West to try to rescue you, Mr. Gordon and be killed in the attempt."

"Where does Warner live?" Jim asked.

"At the hotel. That's three buildings down from here, towards the river."

Jim nodded. "I saw it. Room number?"

"He took over the whole third floor–rent free of course. The owner is the only one who doesn't have to pay a premium for protection. Warner isn't about to burn his own residence down!" Osborne looked at each of the two grim-faced men. "I heard a rumor that your private train took off."

"Seems to be true," Artemus replied. "We're hoping the crew is summoning the army to help us, but they can't get here for another day, if not longer."

"So what do you plan to do?"

"Arrest Warner," Jim replied simply.

"Tell me," Artie said, refraining from smiling at Osborne's astonishment, "did Kip Manley really send us that food and it's ah spices?"

"He did," Osborne nodded. "Surprised the heck out of me. He likes Lizzie, and he doesn't like how Warner treats her."

"Where is Manley now?" Jim asked.

"He was downstairs. He might have gone out when the explosion occurred, but I doubt very much if he went with the posse." Osborne frowned. "Why did the posse think you left town?"

Jim ignored the query. "Can you bring Manley up here?"

Artie was a bit startled. "Jim, is that wise?"

"I think we've got to chance it, pal. He helped us escape. If he still wants to meet you in a gunfight well, we can deal with that when the time comes."

Artemus met his friend's gaze, and realized that Jim West was still determined to be the one to face Kip Manley. _Well, as you say, partner, we'll deal with that, if and when the time comes._

Osborne left the room, closing the door securely behind him. Artie looked down at the pistol he still held in his hand, then holstered it. "What do you think, Jim?"

Jim West shook his head. "I don't know what to think. Maybe we'd be smart to get the horses and ride in the opposite direction that the posse took. We might be able to make our way to Black Mesa."

"And we might lead Warner's guns right into that town," Artie said quietly.

Jim grimaced. That same thought had occurred to him. "I guess we'd better see how it plays out here. If Manley really is on our side"

"I just don't get it, Jim. For years, from all we've heard, he's talked about killing me. He cooperated with Warner's plans. Why would he suddenly change?"

"Maybe it's not that sudden," Jim mused. "Osborne said Manley has been here a couple of months."

Artie nodded. "Apparently Kip has feelings for Lizzie. If that's the case, it must be a real surprise to Kip. Even in school he boasted that no woman would ever lasso him. Which of course caused the girls to chase him even harder."

Before anything more could be said, a tap sounded on the door. Artemus pulled his gun again, as the two agents stepped to either side of the door. They were fully alert as the door opened. Osborne entered first, followed by Lizzie. They hurried in and closed the door.

"Where's Kip?" Artemus asked.

Lizzie answered, "Warner sent for him."

"I told my bartender to send Manley up here as soon as he returns," Osborne put in.

"We want to thank you for your help, Lizzie," Jim said.

She smiled briefly. "Well, I had to do my part to make sure my palm reading of a long life came true!"

"You actually saw that in his hand?" Artie asked. Although they never really talked about it, Artemus knew that Jim held the same view he did: in their profession, the chances of reaching a ripe old age were very slim.

"I did," Lizzie proclaimed. "Would you like me to read your palm?"

"Later perhaps," Artie smiled. Then he sobered. "That posse is going to realize before too long they've been led astray."

Jim nodded. "When they do, they'll start a building by building search."

"No problem," Osborne grinned. "I'll put you in my secret vault."

"Your what?" West and Gordon spoke as one.

The saloon owner chuckled. "I didn't build this place, bought it a dozen years ago. The previous owner was an old fellow who was certain that everyone was out to rob him blind. He didn't trust banks or anything else. So he dug–did it himself, mind you–he dug a deep hole under the storeroom, to store his valuables in. He showed it to me just before he left for San Francisco and the high life. I've used it a few times to store my best whiskey and some French wines I once bought on a whim. Not the most comfortable place in the world, but no one knows about it except me and Lizzie. She knows because she's my silent partner."

Lizzie's smile was suddenly shy. "Dolph was having some money problems, and I had some saved up. So we made a deal. I didn't want any credit as owner. He does just fine without me."

"Thing is," Osborne said, "you can hide there if necessary, and both Lizzie and me will know about it. Not like you'd be locked in and something happen to me."

"You have to lock it from the outside?" Artie felt a chill along his spine.

"I'm afraid so. But that's a last resort. Might not be necessary. Let's not count those chickens, you know."

Before anything more was said, a sharp rap sounded on the closed door. As previously, Jim and Artemus took positions on either side of the door as Osborne opened it. Kip Manley stepped inside, gun in hand. "Are they in here?"

"Right here, Kip," Artie said. His own gun had leapt into his hand the moment he saw the shiny instrument in Manley's. Jim had drawn his as well.

"Close the damn door," Manley growled, shoving his own weapon into his holster. "Warner is raging mad. He's put out orders to kill anyone found in the company of you two." His eyes went to the woman.

"Is he alone in the hotel?" Jim asked.

"No. He's never alone. I saw at least two men with him. He ordered every man to join the posse chasing you two, but there still could be others in his suite that I did not see. He wanted me to stay with him."

"Why didn't you, Kip?"

Manley looked at Artemus. "Because I can't stand the smell of him."

"I don't get it. What are you up to?" Artie finally put his own gun in his holster, while noticing that Jim was still holding his at his side. "You've been bragging for years how you are going to kill me."

"That what you heard? Maybe I will someday. But not Warner's way. He didn't tell me right off the plans he had. He said I could settle with you and he'd be happy settling with your partner. It was only after you two were in the valley that he revealed all his ideas. By then he knew by then it was too late for me to change my mind." Manley looked at Jim West, then back to Artemus. "Where are your horses? I know the reason the posse lit out was they saw that your horses were missing from the stable."

"They're where we can get at them when we need them," Jim snapped.

Kip smiled slightly. "I don't blame you for not trusting me. I'd do the same. Let me make this clear. I'm not so much helping you as I'm hoping to thwart Warner. I want him out of the picture." Once more his blue eyes touched on the woman.

Osborne spoke up then. "Seems to me you two better get out of town before the posse returns."

Jim shook his head firmly. "Not without Merton Warner. He's wanted for a number of crimes, including murder."

"You can't hope to arrest him now!" Lizzie cried. "He's got more than forty men working for him."

"Most of whom are out searching for us," Artemus reminded her. "So we'd better act fast, Jim."

Manley was eyeing the two agents. "I've heard stories about you over the years. I thought it must have been exaggerated. Maybe not."

"I presume the hotel has a back door," Jim said.

Osborne nodded. "And back stairs that go up to the second floor. But you can't be serious. Even if you get Warner out of there, as soon as his men return, they'll be after you. Where will you go with him?"

Jim did not answer, stepping toward the door. Artie followed him, then was startled to realize Manley was intending to join them. Jim saw that as well, and exchanged a glance with his partner, just before carefully opening the door. Artemus read volumes in that quick glance. Jim did not yet trust Kip Manley. Artie himself was unsure.

__

I shouldn't trust him. I have no reason to trust him, other than what we shared as boys. Kip was never what I believed him to be, even then. Knowing that, knowing he has threatened to kill me, that he participated in the snare that lured both of us to Whitewater why do I feel as though we need him? That Kip Manley is going to make the difference between dying here and escaping?

The three men walked swiftly and silently down the hallway to the rear stairway, not pausing until they stepped out into the cool night air. "Follow me," Manley clipped, and continued on, not waiting for assent.

The agents hesitated only an instant, then tailed after the gunslinger. Manley led them behind the next two buildings, neither of which showing any light inside, to a door at the rear of the town's only three-story structure. Whitewater itself was pretty quiet now, the only sounds emanating from the several saloons, and with virtually all of Warner's men absent, those sounds were subdued.

Manley crouched in the deep shadows alongside the hotel's back door, and Jim and Artemus followed suit. "The stairs are to the left as we go in. They open in the hallway of the second floor, don't go all the way to the third. We'll have to go down that hall, and up the main stairs."

Jim leaned back and peered up the side of the building. "I see dim light up there. I presume that's Warner's quarters."

"His bedroom is in the back, yes. I'd be surprised if he's in bed though. Likely just a lamp lit in there."

"I'm wondering if there's a way I can get to that window," Jim murmured. He got to his feet and stepped back a couple of paces.

"Jim!" Artemus protested. "That looks like sheer wall to me. No footholds or handholds. You don't have your usual gear." He was thinking of the projectile Jim might have used, firing it into the eaves with a rope trailing that he could climb.

"I think I see a drainpipe," Jim returned.

Artie opened his mouth, and shut it. He knew his partner. If Jim West saw a one percent possibility of scaling the wall, he would try it. To be sure, having him go in through a window could be an excellent strategy, especially if Warner had more than the two guards with him.

"Give me a boost, Artie," Jim said.

Artemus made a stirrup with his hands, and when Jim placed his foot there, hoisted him up as far as he could. Jim grasped the drainpipe that was fastened to the outer wall near the corner of the building. Artie held his breath for a moment, but the pipe remained secure as Jim began inching up, hand over hand, using his boot toes as best he could to gain purchase against the shingled walls.

When Jim was nearly halfway toward the third floor window that was his target, Artemus touched Kip Manley's shoulder. Manley tried the latch, and muttered a soft curse.

"It's locked."

"Pardon me," Artemus said, slipping the picklock from under his waistband. He was surprised at his own satisfaction when he realized Kip's astonishment as the door opened.

"Thought you were a law officer," Manley hissed.

Artie just grinned, then stepped into the dark and empty kitchen of the hotel. Closing the door quietly, the pair stood and listened for half a minute. Kip jerked his head, and Artie followed him through a door. Artemus had not realized how much his eyes had accustomed themselves to the faint light of the stars and the sliver of moon until they entered that inner room, which seemed pitch black by contrast. He quickly pulled a match from a pocket and ignited it.

The room was small, apparently where servers prepared their trays to carry out into the dining room. Kip continued on through, opening another door, this time into a hallway in which dim lamps were burning on wall sconces. Artie extinguished his match just as it started to singe his finger.

This hallway led to narrow back stairs, similar to the ones in the Silverado. Halfway up, Kip halted so suddenly that Artie bumped into him. "What's wrong?"

"Remember, these stairs don't go all the way to the third floor. We're going to have to go down the second floor hallway to the main stairs at the front."

"Then let's do it. Jim will be reaching the third floor before we do." Artemus had utmost confidence that his partner could handle three men, especially if one of those was the less-than-athletic Merton Warner. But what if a half dozen other men were in the suite? "Are there tenants on the second floor?"

"That's where my room is. Others are occupied by Warner's men, who should be out with the posse."

__

I hope! Artie shook his head slightly. They were in the dark in more ways than one!

They had no choice but to continue to the second floor, stepping out into a carpeted hallway, which muted their footsteps. Both men held their weapons in hand as they made their way carefully toward the far end, to the main stairs. Artemus Gordon expected to hear a commotion from the floor above them at any time. He did not expect Jim to wait for them. As they reached the stairs, Kip put a hand on Artemus's arm.

"There's a door at the top of the stairs that usually isn't locked," he whispered. "But it might be now."

Artie patted his side where the picklock had been slipped back into its little pocket. "We'll take care of that."

"Where the devil did you learn to do that? Your mother would have had your hide!"

Artemus did not reply as they climbed the stairs. All was silent, the walls of the hotel buffering the sounds from the streets below. The door at the top of the stairs was a solid one, obviously installed somewhat recently; but it was unlocked. That fact bothered Artemus Gordon. Warner was frightened enough to keep bodyguards nearby. Why would he not ensure that this door was secured?

Manley opened the door and preceded Artemus into the upper hallway. Lamps in sconces were lit all along the hallway, their flames turned up higher than the ones in the rear first floor passage. Two doors stood open, but no sounds emanated. _It's too quiet! _Artie grabbed for Manley's arm, but the other man was striding down the hall. No choice but to follow.

Kip Manley walked past the first open door with barely a glance at it. At the second, he paused before reaching it, glancing back at Artie and motioning him forward. Weapon ready, Artemus advanced, wishing now that he had taken time to discuss plans with Manley, who obviously had his own agenda. Seemed as though he wanted Merton Warner more than the agents did.

They stepped into the open doorway simultaneously, and froze. Across the room, Jim West was on his knees, hands behind his back, a bandanna tied tightly around his mouth, while two men held pistols at his head. In the bright lamplight, his green eyes were blazing with anger, and Artemus knew that fury was directed at himself. He had somehow failed and been caught.

"Put your weapons down," Merton Warner commanded. "Or see Mr. West get his brains blown out before your eyes."

"Kip!"

Artemus snapped the word as he suddenly realized that Kip Manley was not worried about Jim West's safety, and was about to bring his weapon around toward Warner. What had Merton Warner done to incur this hatred? Artie was sure it concerned the woman Lizzie.

Slowly Manley lowered his gun, and both men let their weapons clatter to the floor. Artie was conscious of the derringer still inside his shirt. Did Kip realize he still had that? One of the men who had been beside Jim stepped over the gather the two guns. Jim was pulled to his feet. Artie saw new bruises on his face, and a tear on his jacket sleeve. He had not given in easily. _It must have occurred while we were still on the first floor, unable to hear a commotion from the third. Dang it, Jim, why didn't you wait for us?_

"Gates," Warner spoke to the man who had picked up the guns, "help tie these two up, then ride out and bring the boys back in. They'll want to be in on a triple hanging."

Jim looked toward his partner, saw the tense frown on Artemus's face. Jim knew that Artie was still in possession of that small gun that had been hidden in his dinner plate, and right now must be considering that if his hands were tied behind his back, he would be unable to access that gun. He needed an opportunity to get at the weapon now.

Jim West abruptly pushed himself to his feet, staggered slightly, falling against the man who had been guarding him. That man shouted, grabbed his arm, and shoved him against a nearby sofa, angrily pointing his gun. Warner yelled, halting whatever that man had been intending to do.

Artemus Gordon took advantage of the brief moment of distraction, slipping the derringer from inside his shirt and pushing it up under his coat sleeve into a small pocket where he sometimes secreted special chemicals or similar defensive weapons that might come in handy. Now was not the time to attempt to shoot it out with two men holding forty-fives with a two-shot derringer.

"Mr. West," Warner purred, "I don't know if you were essaying to deny me the pleasure of watching you hang, but I warn you, do not attempt such antics again. I will punish you by having Mr. Gordon shot in a most painful but not immediately fatal spot. Do you understand?"

Jim glared at the man. He was still seething over the trap he had walked into. Warner had always been a clever man, and somehow he had belatedly come to the conclusion that perhaps the escapees had not left town after all. Jim had thought that his ascent up the pipe was pretty quiet, but the moment he gained a partially opened window on the third floor and had reached to open it, his wrists had been seized. They had dragged him inside, pummeling him before he could get a footing to try to defend himself, bound and gagged him. He had had to remain quiet while his partner walked into a similar snare.

One thing he knew for certain was that these two men were the only guards with Warner just now. When the posse returned, the situation would change drastically. They had to find a way to turn the tables on Warner before those forty or so men came back to town to create insurmountable odds. Depending on when the train crew pulled out, if they did summon assistance from the army, the troops could arrive sometime tomorrow. But sometime tomorrow could be much too late.

"Mr. Manley," Warner said as Kip was bound and pushed into a chair, "I'm very sorry and surprised to see you have gone over to the enemy."

"Let's just say I learned who the real enemy was," Manley snarled.

Warner chuckled. "Well, I can assure you that I will take good care of Lizzie when you are gone."

Artie looked at his childhood friend. Kip's blue eyes were ablaze with hatred. Plainly he was in love with Lizzie, and also plainly, Warner had somehow mistreated the woman.

Once all three prisoners were secured, Gates departed. Jim noticed that Merton Warner became a little less confident having only one guard with him. He wished the gag removed from his mouth so that he could work on eroding that confidence. He was not the least bit astonished that his partner had the same idea.

"Don't you worry about fire with all those lamps burning, Warner?" Artie commented from the soft chair where he had been shoved. He was glad he had been put into this particular chair, because the cushions would help hide the movement of his wrists and hands when he procured the gun from his sleeve. Jim was still on the sofa where he had been shoved by the angry guard.

"Just keep your mouth shut, Gordon," Warner growled, "or I'll have you gagged too."

"Then who would you talk to? That ape? I doubt if he can count beyond three, let alone hold a decent conversation." Warner always considered himself an erudite man, educated and sophisticated, far above most other mortals. "Now you and I can hold a fine conversation about the great works of literature. Or would you prefer opera? Classical music? You choose."

When Artemus Gordon foiled Warner's previous plans to execute Jim West, he had used the guise of a disgraced English nobleman, highly educated and schooled in the arts. He had put Warner completely off guard with long conversations about fine artworks around the world, whether music, painting, sculpture, writing, drama Perhaps because the previous disguise Artie had used to infiltrate Warner's gang had been that of a nearly illiterate clod, Merton Warner never suspected he was dealing with the same man until too late.

Artemus was deliberately reminding Warner of that incident, hoping to upset and distract him. They did not know how much time they had before Gates or other henchmen joined Warner here. Artie could see that Kip Manley was puzzled by the strain of conversation, but Jim was quite aware of what his partner was doing.

"Hinkley!" Warner snapped, "gag Gordon! Manley too. I don't want to listen to any of their guff."

The man had to holster the weapon he had been holding, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket as he stepped toward Artie. That put him directly into the path of Jim's boots. Jim West brought his knees up and slammed both feet into Hinkley's hips, sending him sprawling, with a yell of anger and pain.

Warner cursed and took a step toward Jim, but by then Artemus had twisted around, and the small gun in his hand cracked. Now Warner yelped, grabbing his upper left arm as blood spurted between his fingers. Kip Manley grasped the situation quickly, and when Hinkley attempted to crawl to his feet, Kip kicked him in the head, knocking him cold.

"I have another pellet in here," Artie warned. "It's small, but imagine what would happen if it hit your face, your eye, say, instead of your arm. Untie Jim West."

They could almost hear Warner's thoughts as he looked at the little gun, perhaps gauging his chances to grab the weapon now in the holster of the unconscious Hinkley. Artie had pushed himself to his feet, still turned slightly so that the derringer was pointed at Warner.

Jim stood up as well, turning his back to Warner. After another moment of hesitation, Warner began to untie the knots that secured Jim's wrists. As soon as they were loose, Jim jerked the bandanna from around his mouth, and then picked up Hinkley's weapon. He held it while Warner, cursing and muttering, untied Kip Manley, who took the derringer before allowing Warner to work on Artie's bonds.

"You'll never get away," Warner snarled. "I have men all over the valley."

Jim now crossed to a table on the other side of the room, where the weapons of the captured men had been deposited. He put his own in his holster and brought the other two back. "Kip, can you get a couple more horses?"

Manley nodded. "Mine's in the hotel stable, and I'm sure I can borrow' one for Warner."

"Meet us behind the Silverado," Jim said, glancing at his partner, who was busy tying and gagging Hinkley.

"I need a doctor for my arm," Warner fretted now.

Without a word, Artemus pulled Warner's coat down over his arm, revealing the very bloody sleeve. He then picked up the bandanna that had been used to gag Jim and wrapped it around the wound, securing it tightly. "That'll hold you for now. It's just a pinprick in comparison to what a forty-five could do, you know."

"Let's get moving," Jim urged. "That posse could be coming back at any time."

Artemus did not argue, pushing Warner ahead of him out into the hallway. They descended the stairs to the second floor, then headed toward the rear stairs. "Just keep moving," Artie warned when Warner tried to slow his pace as Jim preceded them down the stairs. He put a hand on Warner's shoulder and pushed him into the stairwell.

"Can't you at least light a lantern?" Warner muttered as he stumbled into the darkened kitchen.

"Don't worry, we'll have the stars to light our way," Jim responded, opening the back door and peering out.

He saw nothing untoward in the vicinity, except a glow of light under the door of the large building directly behind the hotel. The stable, where Kip, presumably, was saddling a pair of horses. Jim looked back at Artemus, who was sticking close to Warner.

"Can we trust Manley?"

Artie hesitated a moment. "We have to at this point, don't we?"

Jim did not reply, striking out toward the back of the Silverado and the shed where they had secreted their horses. Artemus Gordon followed, nearly dragging their prisoner along, as Warner continued to try delaying tactics, perhaps rightfully assuming that his captors would not want to risk a shot at this point.

They reached the shed without incident, and Jim stepped inside to bring the horses out. A sound from the rear of the Silverado caught Artie's attention, and he swung his gun that way. Lizzie appeared through the back door, hurrying toward them.

"Where's Kip?" she whispered hoarsely.

"He'll be along in a minute. He's all right."

"Is he going with you?"

"I expect so." Artie anticipated her next question. "Right now we have no plans to arrest him, Lizzie. He'll be free to come back."

The presence of the woman appeared to inspire Warner. He straightened somewhat. "I'll be back as well," he growled, glaring at her.

"Don't count on it," Jim said, bringing the horses out. "You won't have the chances you had last time, Warner. You're going to hang this time."

"There's Kip," Lizzie breathed, and hurried toward the shadowy figures of the man and two horses approaching them.

"Jim," Artie spoke in a low tone, "when Warner's men get back in town, they are liable to go on a rampage."

"I thought of that. We can have Lizzie and Osborne attempt to rouse the town, get them ready. Even if we stayed, we couldn't do much more."

"I know. I sure wish the army could get here sooner."

Jim grimaced. "It's a long ride from Laramie." He stared off into the darkness a moment. "Artie, we could try to lead Yates and the posse away from town."

"They'll run you down!" Warner growled.

"Your horse and mine could very well outrun them," Artie speculated, looking toward the approaching pair with the two horses. "Kip, what kind of speed do those nags have?"

Manley frowned. "I've won a few heats with my sorrel here. Not sure about the bay I saddled. Too dark to inspect it closely."

Lizzie spoke up quickly. "That's Tom Julian's horse. He usually finishes first or close to first in local races."

"Then let's try it," Artie stated. He quickly told Kip what they had in mind. "We can't allow those men to go on a rampage in this town."

"How do you plan to accomplish it?"

"We'll have to let ourselves be seen," Jim West said soberly. "Lizzie, you and Osborne should still alert the townsfolk in case this doesn't work. They shouldn't do anything to antagonize the posse, to cause them to halt here in Whitewater."

"And if any of them want to take up arms and follow," Artie put in, "that's fine, but tell them to stay well back unless they hear heavy shooting."

"You'll never make it," Warner sneered.

Jim turned toward their prisoner, face and voice like ice. "Don't try to slow us down, Warner. If I suspect you're holding your horse back, I'll shoot you off it. I swear to God I will."

Even in the darkness, Artemus could see that Warner's complexion blanched. He would not be the first man to experience fear under the cold glare of James West. "Let's get ready then," he said. "They'll be coming back from the south, so we'd better be at the north end of the street."

Lizzie grabbed Kip Manley's hand. "You be careful."

Kip did not reply, but Artie was sure he squeezed that hand before releasing it, then watched her return to the rear door of the saloon. _Must be something different for Kip, to actually have feelings for another person after all this time. When this is over. _He glanced at his partner, who was pushing Warner into the saddle on the bay. Jim had produced a small length of rope from the saddlebags of his own saddle, and used it to lash Warner's hands to the horn, once again warning him to not cause any problems. How was Jim going to feel about Kip Manley, provided, of course, they all got through this alive? They were about to be pursued by about forty men. Mistakes would not be allowed; only riding hard and riding fast.

Jim swung into the saddle, keeping hold of the bay's reins. They would be able to travel faster if Warner could be trusted. _If Kip Manley can be trusted!_ He almost physically shook his head. Although Artemus had not said anything, Jim had the distinct impression that his partner now trusted the man who had threatened to kill him, and who had participated in the ruse that nearly got him hanged.

__

I'm going to have to keep an eye on both Warner and Manley. If either one attempts to slow us down They were going to be traveling blind in more ways than one, not only because of the depth of the darkness of the night. They had not discussed it further, but Jim knew Artie felt the same way he did. They could not lead Warner's hordes away from Whitewater's citizens and set them loose on unsuspecting Black Mesa, so seeking safety in the other town was out of the question.

The four riders had just reached the north end of town when they heard the thundering sounds of many horses approaching from the opposite direction. Gates was leading the posse back into town. Very likely, Artie mused, they have celebrating on their mind. _They'll be wanting to head for the various saloons, assuming their boss has things well in hand. They won't be happy when they grasp the situation._

"Jim," Artie said quietly. "Get to the tracks and follow them?"

"That's my thought," Jim concurred. The railroad tracks would lead them out of the valley. Quite possibly the posse would not want to venture out of their own territory, even to rescue their boss.

"There they are!" Kip snapped. Down at the far end of the short but straight street they could see the shadowy forms and the dust raised by the horses. Kip drew his gun and fired one shot. Without a further word, Jim jerked on Warner's horse, and the four mounts broke into a gallop, hearing the startled shouts behind them, along with some sporadic shots.

They followed the main road, a dusty, silvery path in the starlight, for about twenty or twenty-five minutes, and then veered off toward where the railroad tracks cut through the valley. Their pursuers continued to shoot at them, and periodically one of the three armed men who were the prey fired back, as much to make sure that the posse could locate them as anything else.

Artie leaned low over his horse's neck, encouraging the chestnut, and hoping that none of them encountered an obstacle that would cause a horse to trip. He knew they had a long hard ride ahead of them yet, probably close to an hour before they even gained the railroad tracks, and then another hour or more to exit the valley. Even if they got that far, they had no guarantee that Warner's men would give up.

Jim West glanced back over his shoulder, partly to check Warner, who was clinging to the saddle horn, face twisted in rage, but also to check their pursuers. _They're gaining._ At first, the two agents and their companion had held their mounts in slightly so as to give the posse an opportunity to think they were going to be caught. As soon as they were on the open road, they had kicked their horses into their fastest gaits, and for awhile, put some extra space between the two groups.

Now, however, it appeared that at least the men in the forefront of the posse were closing the gap slightly. Jim did not worry so much about actually being caught as coming into range of the weapons those men held. Right now, when they fired, the shots went wide. _Maybe one of us needs to create a diversion._ He tried to look around the countryside, seeing only the flat near-arid fields of this part of Wyoming. The river was the primary source of water, and they were not near it right now. No place for one man to hole up with a couple of rifles and create a disturbance that might allow the other three to escape.

The railroad tracks gleamed like a silver ribbon under the faint rays of the stars and the sliver of moon. At least by sticking to the rail right-of-way, they were less apt to encounter rough conditions. But they still had a long way to go.

"Jim!" Artie's chestnut skidded to a dusty halt. Jim West hauled back on the black's reins and jerked the bay to a stop as well.

"What are you doing?" Kip shouted, bringing his lathered horse back to them. Their pursuers had not ceased.

"Listen!" Jim commanded.

The long, low wail, almost like that of a banshee, cut through the night. "There!" Artie cried, pointing up the track toward a shimmering light. "Jim, it's the Wanderer!"

"Well, if nothing else, we can gain the protection of the car," Jim said. "Let's go."

"Why are they coming back?" Artie shouted as they headed out at a gallop again, not expecting an answer, and not receiving one.

For the first time, Merton Warner began to resist, leaning away from Jim and trying to slow his mount down. Jim pulled his pistol and aimed it at Warner's head. The shenanigans ceased immediately. Artemus drew his weapon as well, and shot into the air. He did not think the sound would carry to the oncoming engine, but the crew might see the flash of light from the barrel.

That's apparently what happened, for as they drew nearer, the engine chugged to a near halt. Jim and Artemus both blinked, then looked at each other in amazement, as they saw the forms emerging from both sides of the train from behind what should have been the last car, the varnish car.

"Hot damn!" Artie whooped. "They brought the cavalry!" Extra cars had been added to the Wanderer to transport horses and men.

The ensuing battle was furious, but short-lived. As soon as some members of the posse realized what was happening, they peeled off and fled. But in the end, about twenty were captured by the soldiers, another half dozen were dead, one of them Simon Yates. West, Gordon, and Manley had handed their prisoner over to the engine crew and joined the fray. For their trouble, both Artie and Kip Manley received minor wounds, Artemus grazed on the shoulder and Kip taking a bullet in his thigh.

Though several soldiers received wounds, none were serious. The sounds of the battle had carried to Black Mesa, and shortly a number of men arrived from that town, including the sheriff and the doctor, who was able to treat the wounded. Sheriff Baines was astounded, and embarrassed, to learn what had been happening in Whitewater. The reports he had received from his deputy had not given a hint, of course, and the townspeople had been too frightened to complain.

The train crew proudly explained that some men had come to the Wanderer after West and Gordon both departed, ordering the trio out of the cab. Instead, Orrin Cobb had started the train moving, and soon had it traveling at full speed, leaving those men far behind. Obviously, those particular men did not tell Warner the full story about the "vanished" train. As soon as the Wanderer was at a safe distance, the crew had halted to send a telegraph message to Fort Laramie, so that a troop of cavalry was waiting with cars at the nearest railroad yard. A fast trip back to the valley ensued.

James West and Artemus Gordon promised to treat their train crew to a night on the town in the city of the men's choice.

Dawn was breaking when Jim West, Artemus Gordon, and Kip Manley returned to Whitewater, in the company of the sheriff and a half dozen soldiers. The troop's commanding officer had taken charge of Warner, and would transport him to Cheyenne to await the U.S. marshals who would escort him to his place of trial.

Osborne told them that he was pretty sure that all of Warner's men had abandoned the town. A few had ridden in hastily to gather up their possessions, then vamoosed. Lizzie was there to welcome Kip back and exclaim over his injury, helping him into the hotel. A couple of hours later, the pair reappeared to announce their plans to marry.

Kip Manley watched the faces of his former boyhood friend and Jim West anxiously as Lizzie happily revealed their plans. For that matter, Artemus Gordon kept an eye on his partner at the same time. He was relieved, if not a tad surprised, when Jim did not say anything except to offer congratulations.

The wedding took place that evening, after which Dolph Osborne had an announcement of his own. He was selling his share of the Silverado to the bridegroom. He had had enough of being a saloon man, he said. He was going to California to buy a farm.

WWWWWW

Defend me from my friends; I can defend myself from my enemies.

__

— Attributed to Marethal Villars, when taking leave from Louis XIV

"Your shoulder bothering you?" Jim asked, glancing up from the book he was reading while sprawled on the sofa in the varnish car.

Artemus dropped his hand from rubbing the healing–and itching–wound to glare at his partner. "No, my shoulder isn't bothering me. You are!"

Jim West's brows lifted, his green eyes widening slightly. "I am! Why? What did I do?"

"It's what you didn't do! Haven't done! We are three days out of Whitewater and you still haven't gotten even with me for chloroforming you!"

Jim lowered his book, his face assuming a hurt, innocent expression. "Really, Artemus. You make it sound as though I'm sadistic!" He fought to keep from grinning.

"You are! I know you're going to do something. Do it and get it over with!"

Jim glanced toward the windows and the passing scenery. "Well, later this afternoon we'll be crossing a bridge over the North Platte. I had considered throwing you off the train into the river, but I don't know. That seems like a lot of work."

Artemus sighed heavily. "All right, all right! I've apologized a dozen times. I was not thinking clearly, Jim. I should never have chloroformed you."

"Oh, I don't know," Jim responded with a cat-like smile. "I got a nice nap out of it. And in the end, we were privileged to attend a lovely wedding."

Now Artie swung a chair around and sat down, leaning his arms on the back to peer at his partner. "You're not upset about that either? I mean, there's no actual wanted flyers out for Kip, but"

"Artie, have you ever known me to be a vindictive man?" Again that injured tone and expression.

And once more Artemus sighed. "James, we don't really know what Kip Manley did in the years between the end of the war and now. We heard a lot of stories, rumors, but we both know how those tales can be exaggerated."

"But he did attempt to get you hanged, pal. And me too!"

"He also helped us escape. No use arguing about it. And in answer to your question, _yes!_ Yes, I've known you to be vindictive, especially when you think I've put one over on you."

Jim glanced toward the window again. "We should be in Saint Louis by tomorrow night."

"Saint Louis! I thought the plan was to stopover in Kansas City. Lily" Artemus Gordon jumped to his feet. "Jim! Lily will be waiting for me in Kansas City!"

"Oh, no, don't worry about that. I sent a telegraph message at our last stop to tell her of our change in plans, that you won't be able to meet her at the theater after all." Jim West smiled innocently at his partner.

"Sadistic isn't the word for you, James West!" Artemus shouted. "How could you do that? I haven't seen Lily in two months! She can't leave Kansas City now because her play is booked for another month! We were going to argh!" He threw his hands in the air and stalked out of the car through the rear door.

Jim West laughed softly. _Let him stew a couple of days. Serve him right. It'll be okay when Lily meets us in Saint Louis. He didn't stick around long enough for me to tell him her show was closing early due to a fire in the theater and she said she would be delighted to join Artemus on the other side of Missouri._

Cosmus, Duke of Florence, was wont to say of perfidious friends, that

"We read that we ought to forgive our enemies;

but we do not read that we ought to forgive our friends."

__

Apothegms. No. 206 — Francis Bacon

The End


End file.
